CHAPTER X
THE BROKEN FRIENDSHIP
The Earl of Portland, newly returned from his gorgeous embassy toFrance, sat in his apartments at Kensington reading and re-reading aletter.
It was written in a large and flowing hand, unequal in parts, as if thewriter had been greatly agitated. The contents, which the Earl had nowalmost by heart, were strange and sad.
"KENSINGTON, _April_ 1699.
"Since I cannot dispute with you, I will say nothing to you on thesubject of your retirement; but I cannot refrain from telling you of myextreme sorrow, which is far deeper than you can ever imagine, andassures me that if you felt even the half you would very quickly changeyour resolution--which may it please the good God to inspire you to dofor your own good and my repose. At least I hope that you will notrefuse to keep the key of office, for I am content that it should notoblige you to anything, and, besides, I entreat you to let me see you asoften as you can, which would be a great consolation to me in theaffliction which you have caused me, which cannot prevent me from lovingyou ever tenderly."
It was written in French and signed with the letter 'G,' which hadalways been affixed to this long, intimate correspondence which hadcontinued now for thirty-three years--since they had beenchildren--continued through war and peace, trouble, disaster, illness,bereavement, disappointment without cloud or shadow--and this was theend.
William Bentinck had resolved to resign the King's service.
This was the end--in miserable, trivial jealousy. The friendship thathad lasted so long, keen and pure, so devoted, had strained and broken.Portland sat, with this sad appeal in his hand, and knew that it wasover.
He did not acknowledge that he was unreasonable; he had served Williamfaithfully and devotedly, both as friend and servant, and he had beengreatly rewarded; he was one of the wealthiest subjects in Europe; hehad an English earldom, and the Garter that foreign kings envied; he wasGentleman of the Bedchamber, Privy Councillor, Groom of the Stole, andKeeper of the King's Gardens; the King had supported him again and againagainst the Commons, taken his advice, flattered him by an open displayof his friendship, entrusted him with the important embassy to France,enriched his son, and, when the breach began to grow, spared nothing toheal it. Few kings could have ever entreated a subject as William hadentreated Bentinck.
But he would not dismiss Albemarle; he listened to Sunderland; andeverything was nothing to Portland compared to the fact that he shouldhave to share the King's confidence with this young, untried,light-hearted young man.
When he returned from Paris he had found Albemarle in possession ofrooms in the Palace that he considered belonged to him in virtue of oneof his offices, and the little incident had confirmed his resolution ofquitting the Court. He would be second to no one, least of all to a manwhom he considered as the tool of a faction that he loathed anddespised.
He was well aware that Albemarle was popular, and that he was not; thathe had few supporters in his point of view, and that Albemarle had agreat following gained by his universal sweetness, good sense, andhumility.
He was well aware, too, that the King had never more needed hisfriendship than now; for the present session of Parliament had inflictedone cruel humiliation on him, and was about to inflict another.
The King's grants of lands in Ireland had been looked into andrevoked--even such as he had given to the noble Ginckel, who had donesuch service, and Meinhard de Schomberg, son of the soldier who had diedfor England on the banks of Boyne Water.
William, who had disappointed his enemies by preserving a serenecomposure when he had been forced to consent to the disbanding of thetroops, had scarcely been able to conceal his mortification at thismalice on the part of the Tories, and was still further moved by theagitation rising in the Commons to turn all foreign soldiers out of thekingdom, including the famous Dutch Guards and the refugee FrenchHuguenots whom William had long had in his service.
But none of this shook William Bentinck's stern resolution to leave theCourt.
He folded the letter, put it into his pocket, glanced at the brassbracket-clock in one corner of the room, and went, for the last time, toaccompany the King on his way to the Cabinet meeting at Whitehall, whichWilliam had summoned with the desperate intention of urging hisministers to try some expedient with the Parliament to enable him tokeep the Dutch Guards.
Portland descended heavily into the courtyard where the coaches waited.
It was a sunny afternoon, and half the soft-coloured brick of the Palacewas in a tender light. Some pigeons were gathered round the clock,which was on the point of striking four.
Monsieur Zulestein was there, Sunderland, Devonshire, and MonsieurAuverquerque. Portland kept apart from all of them, and drew the pointof his cane up and down the cobbles; his eyes were fixed on the doorwhich led to the staircase to the King's apartments.
As the clock struck the hour William appeared in this doorway, andpaused at the head of the steps and looked round the courtyard withnarrowed eyes.
He wore black and a star, his hollow cheeks were flushed--unusual forhim--and he was breathing with obvious difficulty.
He saw Portland, and his whole face changed; he smiled, and his eyeswidened with an indescribable look.
Portland met that glance, and a quick pang gripped his heart; heremembered days of long ago, in camp and cabinet, a frail young manfacing the French outside Utrecht, speaking to the Senate at The Hague,firing the people, encouraging a fainting country, leading the madcharge at St. Nelf, fainting over his work during tedious days andnights....
Portland made a step forward; then he saw, behind the King, the ardent,youthful face of my Lord Albemarle, and he fell back.
William slowly descended the steps. The lackeys opened the coach door,and the gentleman came round.
The King looked to Portland, who still stood apart.
"Will you accompany me, my lord?" he said gently.
The seat in his coach was an honour to which his brother-in-law, PrinceGeorge, had aspired in vain. Of late Portland had frequently refusedit, and in terms so curt as to excite the horror of those who heard.Now the King was making a last appeal--his brilliant eyes, his movedvoice were reminding William Bentinck of his letter and of the longfriendship which the 'G' that signed it was a symbol of.
There fell the slightest pause; then Portland answered with a harshnessthat would have been discourteous to an equal--
"I pray you excuse me. I keep my own company to-day."
At this, which was little less than a public insult, the King flushed adark red, and those about him knew not where to look.
"My Lord Sunderland," commanded William, "you will accompany us."
He entered the coach, the Lord Chamberlain followed, and Portland, verywhite but unshaken, mounted his own vehicle.
The Royal coach started. Sunderland said not a word and made not amovement, but sat erect, opposite the King, as they drove out under theearly budding trees.
William broke out into a sudden, deep passion.
"Is this the Prince of Orange"--he cried, striking his breast--"who wassomething in Europe? Is this he, the sport of such as Harley, andinsulted by those who loved him once?"
"My lord must be out of his wits," replied Sunderland. "I could havestruck him."
"This is too much--this is indeed the end," said the King. "He leavesthe Court. By God, I was Nassau once, if I am only King of Englandnow!"
"He must still love Your Majesty----" urged the Lord Chamberlain.
"Love!" echoed William. "Doth love inspire such cruelty?" His speechwas broken by a violent fit of coughing, which caused the tears to rundown his face. Sunderland looked at him in weary despair, and wonderedif he could survive his present griefs.
"The Guards," gasped the King, leaning back in his corner--"I must keepthose Guards--and the French for whom I promised to provide--Ginckle andSchomberg too----" His hoarse voice became incoherent, he pressed hi
shandkerchief to his lips and stared out at the groves of Kensington Parkwith hunted eyes.
"We will do all we may, sire," replied Sunderland; but he felt not halfthe conviction he endeavoured to put into his voice. The party in powernow hated the King and hated the Dutch; they were not likely to bemerciful in their triumph.
Sunderland could not understand this blind fury against the foreigner.It might have been thought that two nations, both manly and given to aplain religion, both engaged in trade and eager for liberty, could havehad much in common, especially when only divided by a strip of narrowsea, and considering that there was no rancour of ancient disputebetween them. But at the bottom of each was a fatal difference--alevity, an extravagance, and a narrow arrogance in the English; aprudence, a seriousness, a reserve in the Dutch--that prevented any realfriendliness despite the specious complexion of a common cause, and hadbeen gradually fanned by jealousy and party spirit into an obstinatetemper, against which the arts of Sunderland were of no avail.
"They must not go," repeated the King in great agitation; "if they do, Igo with them--I have told Somers so. I am a foreigner also." Hepaused; then added, with intense feeling, "I have been too great tobecome the pensioner of a handful of commoners, the butt of your Harleysand Jack Howes.... I will not take this humiliation."
"Your Majesty must think of the United Provinces," said Sunderland. "Ifyou were to resign the crown, what of the English alliance?"
This simple question had more weight with William than all theprotestations of Lord Somers. He went very pale, and half closed hiseyes. In the inevitable, in the nearing contention over the Spanishsuccession, the dear bought alliance of England would be more necessarythan ever to the Republic; but the King's imperious pride, so longcontrolled, outweighed almost his deep love of his country.
"Let Anne and Maryborough rule you," he said, in a low, passionatevoice. "A fool and a villain would maybe please you better. If mysoldiers go I cannot in honour stay."
"You must, sire," answered Sunderland. He looked out of the coachwindow at the white, dusty sweep of Kensington High Street, the cottageswith the early flowers before them and the orchard trees covered withtheir first green. "Your Majesty must remain," repeated Sunderlandheavily. "England needeth you."
William gave a cynical laugh.
"England hath had some work out of me--I have laboured for my pay. I amnot a young man now, and old for my years. I should wish to die inHolland."
The Earl looked quickly at his master.
"Sire, you must not speak of death."
"I am a dying man," said the King quietly. "A few months--no more, Ithink."
Sunderland could not gainsay him. In his own heart he felt a curiouschill of apathy, as if it was nearing the end; the very sunshinewithout, falling so placidly on thatch and flowering tree, lookedstrangely remote. It seemed a long time to Robert Spencer since he hadbeen at leisure to notice the mysterious light of spring. He laughedalso, but with a softer note than the King had used.
"Rest is good after labour," he said irrelevantly.
William was also looking out of the window at fields and clouds.
"God alone knoweth if I am damned or saved," he remarked strongly; "butI have done His will as it was revealed to me."
Sunderland glanced at the Calvinist, who in those words had declared hisreligion. His own creeds were very different; but both men, now at theend, found themselves on much the same level.
Neither spoke again till they reached the courtyard of Whitehall, whenthe King remarked, with an air of disgust, on the fog of smoke thatoverhung the city.
As he dismounted from the coach he paused and glanced round thegentlemen; for the first time in his life he ignored my Lord Portland,but, with a delicacy that Sunderland was quick to notice, he equallyignored Albemarle, and passed into the palace leaning on the arm ofMonsieur de Zulestein.
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